Kapitolu dvacet devět jsem právě četl opravdu minimálně po roce napřímo ve Studiu Midian a...vymklo se mi to z rukou, vžil jsem se tak do role, že náhlý zvrat ve vyprávění mne rozesmál.
Tedy, kapitol není osmnáct , ale padesát sedm a ...budu,bude... je číst, kdokoli bude chtít, celé se bude postupně ukládat, něco ano něco ne a všechno dohromady pak bude audiokniha ,,A za ruku jsem držel astronautku Petersovou" ke stažení zdarma, budou přidány zvuky, hlasy, mixy, možná hudba...kdoví, za chvíli budu ležet na operačním stole a třeba se zase vzbudím do ....jiné reality,světa, třeba v troskách Madridu !
And I held astronaut Peters in hand
Letter addressed to Captain Alexander Yegorovich Schlipenbach.
In the ruins of Madrid,
Late in the evening, on a scorching, passionately glittering, magical night.
A letter from You po .after eternity of the dead Silence. Thanks! Thanks for not taking away my last conviction, the last faith I relied on in this world.
How happy I was with your letter - joy unselfish! There is not a single news in it, nor could it be. No one can leave town.
I have examined and judged everything that has been written in your letter and I have found that everything is vanity. I have not experienced anything that would bring me satisfaction, I have known the immense gap between the emptiness of my heart and the pleasures of human life, I have not longed for pleasure, I wanted to know, hope and love… She.
So you, you worked, traveled and suffered. I'm happy about the first and second. The third one doesn't surprise me. And believe me. Poets never lie about emotions.
Yes, I believed in you, in your heart, in your honesty, but your silence convinced me that you are not worth more than other men, that your heart is like many others, your honesty does not go so far as to prove it to my eyes to say- You're nothing to me anymore! - and I was very sorry! Believe me!
We cling so tenaciously to illusions when we have so few left !!!
Do you think intelligence is a cure for emotion?
I know what London was like two years ago. Lack of food, few opportunities to hunt and collect fruit, dangerous insects, dirty water, snakes and above all uninhabited, overgrown, impenetrable entire city districts.
I know all that.
Imagine, Alexander, if you had a calm, flowering woman with children, and in the morning, in the morning, she would bring you coffee to bed. Big, warm and beautiful. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
Maybe, maybe yes.
When I imagined it, a mad fear seized me.
You see, I don't think about love. For me, youth is there, my friend.
And of his last illusions, all I have left is a deep and bitter memory and an incurable scar that marks the wounded place as a tombstone.
Oh, oh yes. grave. This comparison is sad, but true. My heart is the grave in which all hopes of happiness lie frozen and cold.
I confess to You that I do not know if I love You, but I know that I prefer You to all the men I know, and that I need Your affection.
Adios, my treasure!
Post scriptum: I read this letter and I have a thousand desires to burn it. Should I send it to you at all? I dont know, probably not.
So I don't know what to do. I will hide it and then burn it, or I will give it to you, I will listen to the voice of my heart when I see you again and then I will burn myself.
Good night, my love, I have a terrible migraine.
The charred sheet of paper on which the letter was written was found among the supplies of food delivered from Madrid aboard the Surf a few days before departure.
Logbook, time… .. illegible.
End of chapter twenty-nine.
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